


Letting Go

by chucks_prophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Angst and Tragedy, Diary/Journal, Episode: s15e20 Carry On, F/M, Flashbacks, Grieving Sam Winchester, Heavy Angst, Hopeful Ending, Love Confessions, M/M, Sam's POV, Selectively Mute Sam Winchester, Spoilers for Episode: s15e20 Carry On, secret journal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:07:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27681959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: At first, he was hesitant. Somehow, it felt like an invasion of privacy. Dean wasn't exactly known for big, grandiose emotional declarations unless faced with the possibility of death. So for him to write something - anything - in a journal meant that Dean was actually processing and grieving things. It's no wonder he was able to say with confidence in the face of God himself that he had hope. It's no wonder he recovered from Cas's death this time around. In a way, Sam was indebted to the journal. He wasn't talking to Sam, but at least he was talking to someone - or, rather, something. It's so typical of Dean too - to confide in an inanimate object over a living, breathing human being he's known his whole life a few doors down.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester
Comments: 4
Kudos: 25





	Letting Go

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Although I have been in mourning, I'm really satisfied with the ending. I love this concept of life beginning after death. In a way, Dean made his own sacrifice - as tragic as it was.

_ “It’s true I am built like a tree _

_ My branches reach out and my roots _

_ Dig into everything around me _

_ I’ve no use for tears, and you’ve noticed _

_ I fear almost everything _

_ I don’t have the option to break _

_ Cause all of the people I love have their lives at stake…” _

Averno, “How to Let Go”

Letting Go

𝕊 am didn't intend on spring cleaning. He hadn't even realized spring rolled around. The days feel like a water-damaged book, bleeding and sticking together, bound by the thinnest adhesive. Sometimes the pages fall out, escaping him completely. And he lets them. The days that escape him are preferred to the heavy burden of living without Dean.

Eileen doesn't comment on it, and Sam's grateful. It's not like he could reply anyway. Every time he tries to, the words get sucked back into his throat like a vacuum. Eileen's patient, only asking of him what she needs. He's grateful for her, but he doesn't allow himself to feel it completely, because every night they sit at the kitchen table is another night of staring at an unoccupied chair. Every night he slinks back into the Man Cave that once belonged to Dean is another night next to an unoccupied cushion. Western films provide little comfort. Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year's - holidays that used to bring him some semblance of normalcy and joy - pass by without a hitch. It's like the world’s moving but he's still stationary.

Dean’s room is one exception in that it does provide some comfort. He intends on staying out of it, he really does. But Dean's room is like a magnetic field, and Sam’s pumped full of iron. He can't resist, no matter how hard he tries.

Stepping on the threshold, he takes a breath. He's been in here many times in the last couple months, but it never gets easier - especially not when the room's preserved Dean's memory so well. His bed is still unmade. His clothes are still in a heap on the floor. His closet’s open, distributing the sharp, distinctive smell of leather and car oil. The FM radio on his desk - an object Sam would make fun of Dean for owning - still serenades the stationery and the empty bottles of El Sol next to it with soft static.

Sometimes Sam will sit at the desk like he is now, reviewing old case notes as if Dean's right behind him, looking over his shoulder, just waiting for the pieces to click in Sam's head before he solves it. Dean would tell him "atta boy" and "never thought a Stanford education would come in handy like this, huh?". Sam would scoff and roll his eyes. He'd go through these scenarios in his head multiple times until he was satisfied. It was like therapy for him.

And as it so happens, Sam discovered Dean's own form of therapy. On that same desk is a journal - cracked and leatherbound like the one their dad had. It's even lost its musty, bookish smell; some pages bent, others completely ripped from the spine. It even has a clasp like John's Sam can pop off with his finger.

At first, he was hesitant. Somehow, it felt like an invasion of privacy. Dean wasn't exactly known for big, grandiose emotional declarations unless faced with the possibility of death. So for him to write something -  _ anything _ \- in a journal meant that Dean was actually processing and grieving things. It's no wonder he was able to say with confidence in the face of God himself that he had hope. It's no wonder he recovered from Cas's death this time around. In a way, Sam was indebted to the journal. He wasn't talking to Sam, but at least he was talking to someone - or, rather, something. It's so typical of Dean too - to confide in an inanimate object over a living, breathing human being he's known his whole life a few doors down.

Needless to say, Sam broke one day and opened the journal. Most of it, come to find out, are notes similar to John's, detailing cases dating back two years with new monsters of the week, complete with their M.O.s and strengths and weakness - he even tried his hand at sketching a few of them. Sam smiles, remembering how Dean told Lucas Barr he used to draw when he was a kid too. However, unlike Lucas, Dean never honed in on those skills. That's evident in the way he drew the Kohonta from Polk City. It looks more like a shriveled, veiny dick with eyes.

One section he hasn’t yet seen captures his attention. Judging by the way Dean's words bleed together like the ink itself from what appears to be tear tracks, he wasn't intending on writing this entry. Dated October 28, 2019, it reads:

_ I tried convincing myself it was for the best. I'm like a fire. Anyone who gets close to me gets burned - or worse, consumed with me. Cas leaving was like gasoline, when all he tried to be - all he's ever tried to be - was water. _

Sam carefully flips a few more pages to the follow-up entry, dated December 12, 2019:

_ I haven't told him. I was scared I'd push him away again. So instead we watched a movie. Stagecoach. I woke up at some point with a blanket wrapped around me. I realized I'd used his shoulder as a pillow, drool and all, but he didn't seem to mind. On a better day, I'd convince myself he actually looked content. _

A few more pages and the last entry, written on January 16, 2020, is only two words, underlined and bolded as if they'll fly off the page: 

**_He knows_ ** _. _

Sam closes the book, exhaling on a sob that shakes him like a row boat caught in a storm. It's not like he didn't know. In fact, he knew long before Dean. But reading it - reading the pain in Dean's voice - makes it all too real.

A soft knock on the open doorway stirs him from the narrative in his hands. Eileen's left hand holds the strap of a duffel bag slung over her shoulder. Her right hand points at Sam then forms two letters over her chest.

Sam nods, sending tears he hadn't even realized he shed rolling down his cheeks.

_ I have a new case _ , she signs. Dean would've loved the sign for 'case' a little too much.

Sam inhales sharply as he straightens his posture, bringing the thumb of his open palm to the center of his chest. He lets her lead the way down the hallway, through the library and war room and up the stairs, where he hesitates. The balcony offers a full view of the entire first floor, where a revolving door of memories play out in his head.

Dean’s the first to enter the scene. He appears from the kitchen, moving to sit at the library table with a plate in hand. Cas enters from the room with the telescope. His hair’s disheveled, his coat wrinkled, sighing loudly when Dean moans around the first bite of the burger he made.

Dean snaps his head to him. "Morning, Grumpy."

"No," Cas sterns, "you do  _ not _ get to call me grumpy when I was kept up by your obnoxious music last night."

"First of all, their name is Greta Van Fleet and they're amazing," Dean says, "second, shut up and go grab the extra burger I made for you in the kitchen."

Cas scoffs but moves in that direction nonetheless. "You're insufferable."

As he disappears behind the doorway, Kevin comes into frame from behind the bookshelf with a large book in tow.

"Well, I've got nothing," Dean says, slamming what’s now a book in his hands. "Anything on your end?"

Kevin shakes his head. "No, but it's not surprising. I mean, slamming the Gates of Hell probably wasn't on the Men of Letters' bucket list."

"Great. Jack, anything?" Dean asks, turning his attention towards the boy now sitting across from him with his respective book.

"No," Jack replies, "not unless you count this section about God's hatred for fig trees."

Dean uses his thumb and middle finger to push his eyes back in. "Alright, well, I'm calling it a night," he announces. He heads up the stairs with labored steps that echo in Sam’s ears before disappearing at the top step.

Mary enters from behind Jack shortly after, resting her hands on his shoulders before placing a soft kiss on the top of his head. "We'll figure it out," she says so softly it's almost inaudible, "we always do."

In a blink, they're gone too and Sam's left gripping the railing of the balcony.

"Sam," Eileen says from behind him, "are you ready to go?"

Turning around, Sam faces her with a soft smile, surprising even himself as he utters his first words in two months when he says, "Yeah... yeah, I'm ready."

  
  


_ “Please don’t hold me _

_ I wouldn’t know how to let go _

_ When the forest inside my heart continues to grow…” _


End file.
